Another Revolution
by obsessedwithstuff
Summary: It's the year 1833, and in a world where America lost the Revolutionary War, everything is different. Canada doesn't exist, America is in a constant war with Mexico and England has total control. But it only takes one major move by England to turn everything back upside down again for them both. Oneshot. AU. Angst filled USUK.


It was a dull grey morning. The clouds hung heavy over the sky. The rain was prominent. It seamed as if the sun had not woken up that morning, as if the dark remnants of the night had been left behind in straggling trails that the sun could not penetrate. The sky was the same wherever you looked, the same metallic grey, the same dense clouds. The soggy wetness of morning mist lay thick through across the city.

The streets were deserted. There was nothing but silence; only, it was not quite complete. In the distance, faint, only audible through strained ears, a rhythmic drumming could be heard. It beat the ground, vibrating through the very depths of the city, a huge earthquake quivering the ground. A sort of murmuring lay over the top of it, almost certainly made by human voices. It all merged together, making one blurred noise, nothing distinguishable, all just one synchronized hum, only the drumming breaking away from the harmonies. And it was getting louder, ever drawing closer.

In the distance, through the cold morning mist, a monster began to emerge, a black, blurry mass slithering closer through the streets, the shouts and cries in the synchronized humming becoming louder, separating from each other. A sea of people began to develop, emerging from the monster, of glistening torches, of angry faces, the stomping of boots on the paved stone, rhythmic, like a ritual drum. The masses were coming.

It was too big to handle, too massive to count, as the crowd surged through the street. People marched, foot over foot, man after man, each as angry and riled up as the next. Their voices carried high and loud into the cold air, shouts and cries of pure built up rage coursing through them, the fearless anger of a caged up animal, shot into the morning air, rolling and surging down the line until the entire sky echoed with vengeful shouts, propelling them all blindly into shining rebellion. Each man was set on their own personal revenge, spurred on by a united hate, a hate that brought them all together into this one trivial moment. They had awoken from their slumber, their numbing, repetitive lives they had come to except through the fog of obedience, through blindfolds of false promises and lies, that they, the most important strongholds of society, were nothing more than mindless puppets to _them_. They were being mistreated, manipulated, tossed around while the government sat in their fancy houses and quarters and did nothing but discuss their fate over tea.

But maybe they didn't want that anymore. Maybe they wanted to decide their own fate and make their own laws. They were capable, they were ready. They would not submit to the bidding of the British any longer.

As the monstrous sea thronged down Central Avenue, ever more people joining from side streets and houses the further they travelled, all holding their own makeshift weapon, a spade, an axe, a gun. In the rush of the crowd, the rush of power that came with rebellion, the people held no conscience. It was shoved aside in the storm of rage, with the knowledge that individually, they would never be punished for what was to come. They were ready for whatever the government had to throw at them, for whatever the government tried to make them serve for their disobedience. Rushing adrenaline lay thick within the rage of the crowd. The buzz of revolution hummed in the air.

The port was visible now, a large, stone arch way looming up through fog, and beyond, the deep blue, frothy waves of the sea, continuing on, past the horizon and into the dull grey sky. Wooden ships bobbed in the harbour, anchored to shore, vulnerable and exposed as they lurched violently in the waves, docked by the sides, easy to reach. Of the few guards that were on duty that untold morning, none remained to fight, fleeing desperately as soon as the looming crowds came marching into view, their tails between their legs. Perfect.

As the mob drew closer to their goal, the need to destroy, the thrill of rebellion that jittered inescapably through them became too great too control. The front runners broke into a sprint as the last hundred feet came into view, raising their weapons high and crying out to the heavens with their unstoppable rage. The rest only had to follow, spreading out across the major British fort like a deadly parasite, latching onto and destroying anything their fingers could reach. Even those without weapons indulged in the maddening need to search and destroy, ripping and tearing with their bare hands, creating make shift weapons out of anything and everything their grabbing hands touched. The sounds of tearing wood, smashing glass, the crack of stone against stone, stone against everything, blast out into the morning air, mingling with the shouts and screams of anger still billowing from the mob, creating the sweet sound of chaos, ringing pleasingly in their eyes, and bringing with it the satisfaction of hateful destruction .

The British arrived no less than minutes later. They tried to bring order to mass of chaos, creating barriers, arresting those most violent, confiscating weapons to their own hands, but it was of little use; the mob had long been pushed beyond tipping point. It wasn't long before the sound of gunshots rang through the rage sodden air.

Guns cracked; men fell. The screams of the innocent, of those who had only gotten lost in the moment, who were sucked in by the pumping adrenaline and the prospect of freedom, cut ice cold into the air. They dropped like flies, one after another after another, collapsing to the ground as the stinging pain spread agonizingly through them, the red rose of blood blossoming on their chest, their legs, their head. But the crowds continued to seethe, their anger only raging higher as the shots boomed out unmistakably. Swarming into the ports like hunger-crazed locusts, the never ending sea of people determined to destroy everything in their path. They fired their guns, they themselves not afraid of a little deadly violence if the British could resort to it, firing at the unmistakable bright red coats of the solders, flames of material ramming into the crowd, standing cowardly on top of the harbour's looming walls of defence. Those men were the worst, not even daring to fight with their bare hands, shooting randomly into the crowd at everything that didn't blaze the colour of blood, men, children, the innocent. It just showed all the more how despicable _they_ really were, how the government could never be trusted. It only ensued to stir their angry spirit that much more.

The harbour walls were taken as well, the gun men shot down or pushed off onto the hard concrete hundreds of feet below, not even worthy of their time – _cowards_. The harbour commissions office was obtained, the foreign representative taken captive and held hostage, his pleas ignored, gun to his head at all times like the scum he was, the scum he had always treated us as. He would be disposed of in due time.

Everything was gone now, smashed and burnt until nothing but small shreds and crippled buildings remained. The harbour was in ruins. The only thing of the Brit's remaining was the Navy ships, their dark colours making them look like ominous creatures thrashing in the waves, tall and sturdy, designed to withstand any battle; a challenge. The mob of locusts had swarmed onto their all too temping decks before they even knew what was happening. There were three docked, plenty of government property to rip in their black hands of destruction, leaving nothing behind in their trails. Flames erupted from the decks, the hull, the captain's quarters, spreading like wildfire across the dark ships, lighting them in a new, much more suited, light, the light of revolution. They leapt high in the sky, dancing to the tribal shouts and chants of the crowd below. Screams began to cry out from the ships, at first quiet and unnoticeable, but quickly becoming louder, more agonizing in the face of the mob, as people burned in the inferno, soldier and citizen a like, unable to escape their gruesome death. Black smoke billowed into the grey, morning sky as the fire engulfed the last of the ships, swallowing the harbour and everyone within its walls in its dark jaws. People began to choke, the smoke slithering into their nostrils and throats, making sure they could taste the burning consequences of their revolutionary anger, covering their eyes until there was nothing but murky darkness, blinding them to their own actions. All they saw was the black smoke of rage and smiled and laughed as their hatred for their government took to a physical form, the bright flames of destruction, and choked the crumbling ships.

The orange contrasted too greatly with the darkness of the ocean, with the new found suffocating blackness of the sky. The black smoke became a warning signal, billowing high in the sky until it was impossible too miss, a memorial to all those who died for the name of their country, a challenge to all that would come to try and stop them.

And they came. Oh, they came. Armies marching, wave after wave of blood red men, stained with the colour of all the innocent they had slaughtered, slaves to the government, mindless, only following the orders of their superior because they didn't know better. A shining gun gleamed in the hands of each and every soldier, new, threatening, ready to use in case any of the crowd decided to attack. No one did. For the first time since it began, they were outmatched.

And stood at the front, long, blood red coat blowing in the fire built winds gushing at his feet, already scattering the blinding smoke, was the green eyed, blonde haired devil himself. He was the cause of all their suffering. He was reason so many innocent had died. He held no gun. No, he was too superior, born and bred of nothing but smug arrogance, to hold a gun of his own. He left that to his men. His hands were clean of the blood of murder but his conscience held so many dead he could have created an army.

He held no smugness now though. Only anger burnt in those emerald green eyes of his.

And the golden flames of revolution burnt on his left and the proud, _British _city of his capital stood on his right, and America shouted:

"I will not take your orders any longer! All I want is my freedom, to make my own decisions, to decide my own fate. I am no longer a servant you can just order around, get to do your bidding however you want. I am my own country! Your harbour is in flames. We have taken your capital. You can't deny our freedom anymore!"

America walked alone through the large, empty house. His footsteps echoed loudly, eerily, like hammers on stone, through the silent halls, the only other noise the muffled chattering of the newly arrived guests, England's prestige friends, ready for their significant meeting, discussing pointless things, pointless subjects, all concerning him, none involving him.

The night had crept in much sooner than usual now that winter was approaching. The darkness was chilling, the sickly white moonlight streaming in through the tall windows that looked out across the many acres of fields and gardens that was his property, leading onto the sinister woods that he had spent so many hours in as a child, back when he was innocent, naive, when the only thing that mattered was when England would next come to visit. It sickened how much he had looked up to the man – if he could even be called that – back then.

America stopped at a lamp – another one – lifting the glass chamber designed to protect it, and carefully held his candle's flickering flame to the wick. It glowed red for a moment, then took light in the oil. With a sigh, he closed the lid and began walking down the empty corridor once again.

When was it that he had become nothing more than a servant in his house? Whenever England visited he was reduced to nothing more than the work of maids and slaves, sweeping, washing, hanging England's clothes, getting England's tea, like the good, obedient underling he was. Why couldn't he just treat him with the respect he deserved, like an equal, not a subordinate, nothing more than a naive child in his eyes, unable to make his own decisions, to fix his own mistakes, to think for himself. He was lucky he had even gotten a place at this meeting. Usually he was locked out, silenced into submission, with no allowance of his say or opinion, only finding out what had been decided after everything was finalized. It had taken a lot of begging and pleading – something that he hated to be forced to if ever it concerned England – to get him into the room. England was always in control. He hated him for it.

The intricately decorated, oak door of England's office loomed up in front of America. It was suitably lapsed into dark shadow, making it seam ominous and sinister just to knock on it, suited to match the blackness of England's soul. Not even America's candle dared to flicker its light on it. He stopped, studying the door critically with a heavy scowl. Why did England even have an office in _his _house? Shouldn't it be _his _office?

Maybe he could just leave him to himself in there, let him continue with what he was doing, perhaps forget to knock, forget his main purpose for coming down this hall – he was so busy lighting the lamps after all – ensure that England missed his meeting with the officials waiting down the hall, or even better, walk back to them, a lightly apologetic smile on his face and exclaim how awfully sorry England was but he was just too busy to meet with them at this time, but America, his young but perfectly capable little brother, had kindly offered himself in the Englishman's place, to organise and consider all that needed to be discussed, to work on England's side, after all, they had come all this way and it was a shame for them to leave with nothing accomplished.

It was plausible, England had been incredibly stressed lately, what with the French and the Spanish constantly on his back after losing that war, wanting their territory back, especially the land up north, despite the treaty they had signed, and Mexico still chasing after him, grating on his nerves, on all their nerves, shouting that California wasn't nearly enough land for them to work with, scraping and dodging desperately for loopholes and faults in their agreement, flimsily advancing a few miles past the border before running back home like the cowards they were as soon as America's army arrived, and then there were the Russians, always hanging ominously above their heads in that territory to the north, the prospect of war always a thick barrier between them. If he were to let England continue with his work they'd both be at an advantage, England could ensure his pestering problems weren't left hanging in the dark without solutions and America could _finally _get his own say in the happenings of his country.

The sound of light laughter sliced coldly through America's thoughts. It snatched him drastically away from his far-fetched fantasies and slammed back down to reality, the reality where he was nothing more than a colony, a servant, and England was in control.

America sighed, crushing down his dreams into the small box at the corner of his mind, where England had locked them away to at all times now, and mindlessly knocked on the office door, like a good servant, like the obedient underling he was. England came out, eyes sunken from lack of sleep, face worn from stress, but he still smiled when his eyes landed on America, thanking him and lightly tussling his hair ("I'm not a child anymore England") before heading off down the hallways to greet his waiting guests. America followed in silence, and knew to remain in silence throughout the discussions, watching from the side as the old acquaintances greeting each other with small talk and pointless conversation, as he himself was introduced again – nothing more than a nod – as they strolled briskly into the dining room, an air of hurried importance about them, as if they all wanted this meeting to be in their past already.

For the first time, America genuinely wondered what this meeting was about.

As soon as the door was shut, the light hearted atmosphere that had swirled around them dropped immediately. Suddenly, everything was business. Their voices echoed deadly serious through the silent room, not a laugh on their lips, not a smile daring to shatter through. They took their seats in the silence. America stood to the side and watched, solemnly, intently.

England was quick to start. He leant gently on his elbows and closed his eyes, entwining his fingers slowly in front of his face. He was never one to mess around.

"I called you all here for an important announcement that I wanted to make to you personally. It concerns a law that has been passed back in England within the last few days. You may have heard but I doubt it the news would have reached here in time, considering I was on a boat over here before it was initiated." He momentarily opened his eyes, assessing the committee for response with hawk like eyes. No one responded; he continued. "You may have seen it coming, you may not, but the idea has been passed around a few times in the last decade..."

He trailed off, letting the tense silence engulf them once again. Only their heavy breathing could be heard. The ice cold anticipation gripped them tightly. America's fingers felt numb; his breath hung in his throat. At length, the Brit let out a deep sigh.

"We are abolishing slavery. It will be illegal in the Great Britain and all of its territories-"

The room erupted immediately, suddenly filled with rejections and angry refusals, standing in outrage, yelling to be heard above the explosion of voices echoing through the room, all shouting their heated opinions, all opposing. Fists slammed on the table, tempers flared, voices yelled, louder, harsher, ever biting, ever hating, and England still remained perfectly calm, a scene of serenity in the outburst of rage filled objections, his eyes closed, his expression an unreadable, effortlessly ignoring the cries of anger echoing around, shooting at him. It was England's cool composure that tipped America's cold hard rage over the edge.

"You can't do this England!" he screamed, cutting off all the other angry voices with his own burning rage. He stormed forward, slamming him fist down directly in front of the Brit, making him start from his peaceful state. He stared up to America as the younger breathed heavily over him, anger tinting at the tip of his tongue, fury rushing violently through him. He enjoyed the flicker of fear hidden in England's emerald green eyes, but it quickly vanished in a sea of shock and disappointment.

"Ameri-"

"We agreed to none of this! You can't just make us laws without us having any say in it at all. What about the cotton fields? They need slaves to run it or else there will be no one out on the fields. And the owners of the plantations, do they have no say in whether they can keep their slaves or not? What happen to our representation in the Houses of Parliament? It was part of the agreement in 1778. Did he have nothing to say about this?"

America breathed heavily. Rage ran cold through his veins. He desperately resisted the urge to have the pleasure of physically hurting the man.

"He opposed, but was outnumbered by those who agreed."

"NOT GOOD ENOUGH!" Another slam; another burst of rage. "You force this law upon us when we had no agreement on the matter. We will not follow it. We won't allow it!"

England narrowed his eyes threateningly. He stood up, trying to look powerful, controlling, against the taller American. For a moment he looked as though he would retort, an argument would ensue, a heated debate, the first one they had had in months, after the so so many before the war. America was happy to welcome it. At least then he would get his say, at least then England would listen to what he wanted, to his opinion, even if he did not agree. It was a start. At least it wasn't the complete dismissal that had so often suffered from him as of late.

But the anger flaring in England's eyes died within a few seconds, leaving his expression only very bored.

"It's done now, America. It won't be taken back. You'll just have to accept it."

The harbour still burned, waves of staunching heat battering into them, the blazing orange flames licking at the walls, at the wooden boards, threatening to jump from one to the other. Cries of terror, of desperation to calm the monstrous flames, eating, engulfing, mercilessly destroying everything that stood in its path. It let out a eye splitting roar, drowning out the straggling screams of burning men, slicing through the silence that surround America and his men, as if to remind them of the damage they had done, of the destruction the power of rebellion could cause. America smirked at his triumph, at the pure mask anger that had settled impenetrable on England's face.

The silence was deafening now, the fire, the screams, only background noise, never having mattered in the intensity of the moment. The anticipation lay blood thick in the air, waiting for the British response, too thick for many to handle. They became jittery, always on edge, finding the burning adrenaline, the rush of power, the rush of rebellion, too compelling to control, the need to destroy, the vengeful hate still ablaze through their veins, overpowering them until it fogged their minds with red rage, until they could think of only one thing; their loathing of the British, the need to crush them into dust like the worthless, arrogant scum they were. Shouts were yelled, protests, objections to why they were frozen now, why were they not attacking the army. Soon the hum of shouts and chants had begun again, nothing to be heard above the sea of noise. Someone pushed, all too eager for blood on their hands, and the whole party lurched forward sickeningly. Cheers rang out –something was finally happening – but they quickly dissolved into silence again, as the clicks of guns sounded. England had given the sign; the British had readied their guns.

This is what they had been waiting for. Their twisted plan, designed so that they came out in the clear daylight and the rebels left in the murky waters. They knew the mob were too agitated. They needed to destroy, they needed to have British blood running thick through the streets, and England knew it all too well. He knew that after enough time, the crowd would break, its strength crumbling, people breaking with their makeshift weapons, ready to send a painful bullet through any thing that wore the bright, disgusting colour of blood. They would make the first move, they would lash out in the dark first, they would be seen by everyone in the black light, evil, the problem, the cause of all this devastation. England knew it, and he was using it to manipulate the crowd for his own needs, his own way.

"Shut up!"

But they did not listen, they could not listen, the violent shouts of rage too loud, too overpowering. There another push, another surge, this time even closer. This time nothing held them back. They broke forward, sprinting to the British, weapons raised with full violence and anger high above their heads, screams crying out in pure hatred across the still blazing harbour. The adrenaline was too overpowering, the momentary power uncontrollable, unstoppable, as it burned through them.

Time seamed to slow America watched them in helpless shock, the surging crowd as it flooded forward, their hatred propelling them mindlessly, right into playing hands of the British. He noticed too many details in his devastation, the pathetic weapons compared to the army's gleaming guns, spades, sharp sticks, only a very few pitiful selection of guns, the people who ran forward in their violent screams, some as old as time itself, some still small school boys, gripping tightly to their father's hands in fear of being lost in the crowd, in the rush, still innocent, naive, the world of revolution darkly corrupting their ever pure lives. He saw, as his eyes landed on the emerald green ones he had grown to despise so long ago, the flash of pity buried deep within his cold fury, but no sign of remorse, no sign that he could ever feel sorry. He saw the small gesture of England's hand, nothing more than a twitch of the fingers, as he closed his eyes in frustration and turned to disappear as just another coat in the sea of red, always too pure to have the blood on hands, only ever on his conscience.

Then the shots rang out, deafening cracks against the roar of the flames. Men fell all around him, violently lurching backwards and flopping to the ground, limp, lifeless, as the red liquid poured from their chests, stained their hearts. There were too many to count. Children cried over the bodies of their father's as the ever surging crowds trampled their remains, desperate to get their grabbing hands round a red coat's throat. America instantly ducked to the floor, an automatic reaction now, slamming his face down, his hands protecting the back of his head. He only looked up in time to see that dusty blood hair hide shamefully behind his wall of men before he was lost to a world of blinding pain.

England would never stay to fight. It was only routine to let the army fight for him. They always won, always more experienced, better equipped, than the angry crowd. He knew they would win this time too. It wasn't worth staying to watch. After all, to him, it was just another revolution.

* * *

This idea had been in my head for a while and I just wanted to get it down in some sort of form. The idea of what would have happened if America had lost the revolutionary war always intrigued me and this is what I think would have happened if it did. Thank you for reading. Feel free to review with what you think or your own ideas of what might have happen if America lost the war.


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